The Man Behind the Wolf
by Lunatic Silver
Summary: Because you're never as lucky as the schmucks in the movies.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The Monster Squad_ nor its characters. They belong to Universal, Lionsgate, and whoever else may own the rights to the movie and the franchises half the characters come from. Also don't own the rights to _American Werewolf in London_ and _The Howling_.

**The Man Behind the Wolf**

The television landed on AMC. The familiar scene of Larry Talbot's transformation from a poor, clueless sap to a hairy beast played out but the TV remained muted. It was a silly looking scene by the current standards – nothing like the fancy transformations of _American Werewolf in London_ and even _The Howling_.

But to be fair, none of them were like the real thing.

Louie hit the power button. He didn't like this movie. He didn't like any of those movies. His life was enough of a nightmare without the Hollywood scene glamorizing it and turning it into cheap thrills.

None of them had any idea what it was like. Feeling your skin being stretched until it's ripped apart like worn out sheets. Your stomach turning and churning as any normal food you've eaten is almost tossed back out your mouth because your body can no longer digest anything cooked or pasteurized. The way your body temperature rises until your blood is boiling and you're foaming at the mouth.

They didn't have the foggiest clue.

But he knew. Louie knew all too well.

The next night was the first night. Three nights in a row to look forward to. The full moon would come, and Louie would feel those sensations again. He would do everything he could to keep himself away from the world for those three nights.

But he would probably fail, like always. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been sent to a psych ward with crappy security. He didn't bother counting how many times he'd been "killed."

It was the same every month. Every full moon. The change would come. The beast would tear itself free from Louie's lanky, weak, pathetic body. And Louie was awake for every painful second of it.

Movies and novels seemed to think that if a werewolf wasn't in full control of the change, the wretched human cursed wasn't aware of what the beast did when it was out. They just blacked out, lost consciousness as something supernatural monster took control of their body.

If only.

No, Louie was fully aware of what the wolf did. Louie saw through the wolf's black and white vision. He could read the wolf's incoherent thoughts; instincts and urges that man wasn't meant to know and could never understand.

He had been awake and aware when the wolf ripped apart his wife and little girl. He'd heard their screams that turned to wet gasps and gurgles. He'd tasted their blood and felt their flesh between rows of fangs.

It had been the same every time.

Louie never slept. He always had nightmares of memories. And – unlike lucky David Kessler – he couldn't even black out when the wolf took hold. Not a peaceful oblivion during the full moons; not even that small mercy.

He couldn't remember how long he'd had the wolf. He remembered a night where he had almost died. He remembered a time when he had been a husband and father, struggling to make end's meat. He remembered the wolf tearing that life apart. But dates and places faded while screams rang in his ears and blood dripped from his fingertips.

The wolf was lucky enough to sleep. It slept in the back of Louie's mind and soul; lying dormant until the full moon beckoned him from the human flesh it resided in. A separate entity from its carrier, the wolf was not human or beast.

It wasn't like a bestial Hyde. It wasn't Louie's primal instincts taking over.

Louie knew the wolf. He knew that it had a human's cleverness and cunning intelligence but lacked a conscious, guilt, and remorse as an animal would – because the wolf existed solely to kill and to eat. The wolf existed to live. There was no rhyme or reason to the wolf; so now, there was no rhyme or reason to Louie.

He was just a sad, crazy old man that couldn't die.

Silver bullets and silver knives were hard to come by; his victims never carried either, and the wolf's survival instinct was the one thing that seeped into Louie.

The movies and novels were wrong about that, too, it seemed. The werewolf never died.


End file.
